


And So It Begins. (After It's Already Started.)

by CescaLR



Series: The Time After Everything (Season 4 AU) [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Malia POV, Stiles POV, bad things happen, scott pov, stiles' somethingness is discussed, yeah.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 09:14:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8661550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: People find out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a break from Stilnski Family Feels (and Dysfunction....) to make... more Stiles feels?  
> Idfk. Whatever lets get this started, shall we?

When Stiles pulls up into his driveway, the Sheriff's car isn't there, and the lights are off in the house.

He sighs.

Stiles sits there, for a moment, pondering what little conversation he'd just had with Noshiko- _Mrs. Yukimura,_ wondering if she does indeed wish to help or if the planned session is just a trick.

(It seems quite like a kitsune to do so, but then he remembers that's only the _one_ type.)

(And remembers that they - the pack - still don't know Nos- _you know what, I give up -_ Noshiko's type.)

Stiles grimaces, and, not wanting to be alone with his thoughts any longer, gets out of the car, locks the doors. He goes inside the house, and it is dark, and quiet.

Not silent, though. Stiles frowns, narrows his eyes and _concentrates._ He can just about make out noises coming from his bedroom; shuffling, movement noises, the quiet annoyed _grunt_ that is made, followed by a huff of air.

Ah. Malia's here.

Stiles relaxes, and walks upstairs at a leisurely pace. There's no rush; it's only Malia, and she's here constantly just because she wants to be.

When he opens, the door, he hears her mutter _"finally"_ but passes over it. She doesn't know he can hear her, quite yet, and he wants to keep it that way. She already worries enough.

"Malia." he says, feigning surprise. "When-?" he asks. She replies, though not in the way he expected. "She knows." Malia says, and he slumps because there's only one _she_ he'd never wanted to know. Malia looks at him sympathetically, and gestures towards the bed. He sits next to her, and takes her hands in his, initiating the contact for the first time since he'd gotten that stupid, _slightly evil_ ability.

Stark, thick, black veins spread out of her and travel up his arms, and it's both relieving and _absolutely horrible,_ because this - this _ability,_ it's _wrong._

Even so, its wonderful for the way it seems to take the constant weight off of his girlfriend's shoulders; the way she relaxes is something to behold.

It never happens often. Not without outside help.

She smiles, and its _genuine,_ and it _hurts_ because he _hates, despises_ this power, but it makes her feel _better,_ and _nothing_ does that. Nothing else anyone can do, because it's not a physical thing, her pain. Emotional, mental. There because of memory, and her experiences, and no matter how much a werewolf might want to their power is only for physical pain taking - and that is not the kind of pain they all suffer from.

(so therefore no-one can take his away. He feels that's fitting; he's already got so much. What's a little more, if it helps her? Nothing. Nothing _at all.)_

 _(_ And it doesn't work in the same way the werewolf power does. He can take any form of pain, and it _transforms,_ it changes into some kind of _energy,_ and it helps - _oh god,_ does it help. He doesn't feel like shit, when he does this and for a while after, but _god_ does he feel like _shit;_ because other people's pain gives him relief from his own, constant, consistent physical - well, _agony_. Werewolves take pain, but for them its a constant burden until their werewolf-iness heals the physical pain. But the burden of holding onto that pain, it's mental, and that can't be fixed with rapid-fire healing.)

She stares at him, deeply into his eyes and says "Thank you," and he _feels_ the sincerity like a warm blanket, and with a jolt he realises he hadn't felt her emotions upon entering. He realises he only does once - once the _energy, (_ he hates to call it _food_ but it _is_ and its _horrific,_ to him), once he's had - had enough of the energy to power him up enough to - to -

He lets go. She sighs, and her shoulders _slump,_ as if weighed down by some invisible force, and the instant, _crushing_ wave of _pain_ is both (he hates to admit the 'both') _intoxicating_ and terribly - he can't think of a better word - _painful,_ like - like -

_What if it's agony now, and just - hell, later on?_

_Think of what Winston Churchill once said. 'If you're going through hell - **keep going.'**_

Stiles thinks he might throw up, just from the sickening feeling in his stomach at the horrible stench of pain -

and he takes her hand, again. Again, she relaxes, and this - this is not the first time, not the first time he's done this since she asked him to, that day in Derek's old loft, when they were all gathered to discuss werewolves and all the other shit with the new runt - _Erhm._ \- Beta, Liam Dunbar.

"Lydia suspects something." She tells him, quietly, and the rush of concern hits him in the face so hard that it almost _literally_ knocks him backwards. He grabs onto her arm with his free one, and the small wave of pain he could still feel crashing lightly against her, against him, is _gone;_ the veins travelling up his arms thin, and turn a dark grey rather than stark black, as if the pain shares itself between the two connections, and that means all of the pain can travel to him, instead of leaving some behind simply because there was no space left for transfer.

"I know." Stiles tells her, as quiet as she was. "Its - difficult, to hide this shit. You know that."

She nods, and understanding shines through the waves of pain and the rush of concern like a light in darkness, and he instantly feels better. There's something about Empathy; the magical kind - the one he has, that makes other's emotions affect him more than they used to. Good ones, directed at him, especially, but that's only because he was - and is - a paranoid bastard; he'd never known if they were genuine or not. Now he does, and he can _feel_ that they are, can tell _why_ they're feeling the emotions in question, and it _helps,_ because now he knows _exactly_ who he can trust.

(That nagging feeling in his gut that had always been there - that, he thinks, may have been this, if underdeveloped. But he'd never really been able to figure out what it was trying to tell him; and, as a paranoid person, he'd always assumed the negative. It seems stupid now that he can properly read it, however he understands why he'd done so. Scott's unwavering optimism had needed a balance, after all. If not one that was quite as negative as he'd been.)

"We should tell her." She says, and he _freezes._ She hurries to explain. "She's gonna find out even if we don't, Stiles; and if we do - we'll be able to keep her from telling Scott."

 _Ah._ And there it was; her trump card. He glared, slightly, but it had no heat. Scott was the only one he desperately wanted to keep this a secret from - he'd mind Lydia knowing, of course; but it was better than the alternative.

"Fine." He acquiesces, and she smiles grimly at him. "I'll call her. I may or may not have left the entirety of the wardrobe she'd forced upon me in the boot of her car."

Stiles laughed at that, loud and clear in the quiet house. Malia grinned alongside it, and he felt her happiness at his laughter.

(It had been a while since she'd heard it, heard the genuine kind.)

He nods, and reluctantly she lets go, and instantly he feels her pain settle around her shoulders like some sort of restraint; he almost chokes at the tightening he feels around his throat.

(He knows this is not how she feels it; to her it's just pain, just a weight. He's the only one who feels like its some sort of horrible torture device, slowly choking her until she can breathe no more.

There's a reason why he's constantly holding her hand.)

Her eyes are soft, one last glance before she leaves the room, and to him the silence is suffocating.

(Before it had never been. But once _He_ had happened, once he'd started feeling all of - of _everything,_ silence was something he could do without.

Leaving him to his own thoughts was worse, because he still hadn't gotten over his time of crazy; not yet, and he thinks he never will.)

He taps the rhythm onto his leg, taps his foot along with it. Looks around the room aimlessly, and without having an attack he _panics._

_(Being alone would be the worst kind of punishment.)_

Of course, she's back after not long; maybe a few minutes, and he feels _stupid_ for panicking, _because they'd never leave the other behind,_ but he did anyway and she knows it; can smell the chemo signals and if it weren't hypocritical of him he'd hate that kind of intrusion. She's calm, when she sits next to him, and takes his hand to stop the tapping, to stop that _infuriating_ rhythm from playing again and again and _again_ in his mind. The pain lifts, again, more and more forcefully; the taking of it stronger and somehow more powerful than before.

She slumps more than relaxes slowly, a calmness he's never seen on her features, and he wishes he could do this for eternity.

(they may have started out sleeping with him as the little spoon, but it's easier for him to take the pain when she's it. Which is annoying, because if it weren't for the whole pain taking thing, it would have been uncomfortable for the both of them)

"She's coming over." The coyote tells her boyfriend. "after berating me for not taking my stuff - and herself for not realising I hadn't." He smiles, slightly, and she smiles in return.

"She'll be here soon." He nods, and as one they decide to go downstairs to wait for her. They do, and they sit on the couch, and they wait.

* * *

There is a knock on the door - an impatient one, and Malia goes to open it. Stiles realises the pain is less than before; like when he'd taken it he'd _taken_ some of it, and she wasn't going to get it back. He wonders if she realises this.

(He doesn't much care. She's in less pain; that can only be a good thing.)

"Honestly." Lydia mutters, before entering the house and handing over the bags to Malia. "You really should-"

Malia turns the banshee around, and guides her over to the chair opposite. Confused, she sits down. "What is going on here?" She demands, and Malia simply sits down, without answering. She looks to Stiles, and he grimaces, shakes his head. She sighs, then turns to the other girl. "You've been looking for answers; I figured it was about time we gave you some."

Lydia freezes. "Well..." she says, cautiously. "Don't be too hasty, Malia." Malia frowned at Lydia. "Yes, because you having a secret spy network to keep up on the supernatural in school - and Stiles, is not hasty in any way."

Stiles raises an eyebrow, surprised, the corners of his mouth turning down in amusement. "Really?" He asks Lydia, and she grimaces, glares at Malia. "Possibly." She states primly. "It's not a _'spy network',_ however. Honestly." She shakes her head, and goes silent. Malia, glares in return. "It is. You bribe people to find information on things - and Stiles. It's a spy network; because you explicitly stated you wanted it secret."

Lydia frowned. "How much did you pay to know that?" "Didn't pay" Malia said, blithely. "Funny - throwing a guy bigger than you up against a wall with minimal effort - _faked_ minimal effort - seems to trigger their wish to talk. Odd, that."

Lydia glowered, again. She did not deign to reply.

Stiles refused to chuckle; he'd done so ever since _He'd_ done so. It made his friends flinch.

Malia sighed, frustrated. "Stiles." She said, then stood. "It'd be easier to show her." she finished; obviously, her patience had warn thin. He looked to Lydia, looked to Malia.

After a moment, he sighed as well; though his was one born of resignation. "Alright." He muttered, then stood. Malia's gaze was soft. "Sorry." She muttered. "Not your fault." He replied, instantaneously, perhaps harsher than he should have. To prove his point, he took her hand, and lifted them into full view. Malia had a tank-top on; so no sleeves, and therefore the veins were very visible on her arm.

Lydia sucked in a sharp, surprised breath, the noise loud in the quiet house.

Malia relaxed, her shoulders straightening, her posture less weighed down. He knew that when this happened he looked less tired, less drawn; his eyes slowly lost their bags and his features looked less... _ill,_ is the best way to describe them that he can think of currently. He was certainly less pale; he could see that happening with his own eyes.

The long and short of it; he looks more alive.

Lydia exhaled, slowly, and Stiles flinched and dropped Malia's hand.

_That was fear._

Malia's eyes narrowed at the change in chemo signals; Lydia looked confused for a moment, before realisation dawned on her face and it immediately changed to guilt.

Stiles grimaced, felt the nerves in his system go haywire; felt the churning in his stomach.

(Guilt always made him feel nervous. It was the emotion that affected him the most, in others. Perhaps it was because it's the one he has the most understanding of. It comes with the territory. The territory, that is, of Guilt being the emotion he feels most often.)

Stiles shifts, the nerves making him tap that incessant rhythm onto the couch arm.

Malia does not stop him, this time.

It is a while before anyone speaks.

* * *

 

"I-" Lydia starts, but stops and doesn't continue for a few minutes.

"I'm - ... sorry." She finishes, half-hearted and belated but genuine all the same.

Malia flashes her eyes, but her "You'd better be." is just as half-hearted; they're all too emotionally rung out for it to be anything overly forceful on either behalf.

"You don't need to be." Is what Stiles says, because in his opinion, she doesn't. The last time she - well, she's never seen it herself, but she _must_ have heard of what it was used for. By _him._

( _By them.)_

_(This morning you took it from Isaac, you took it from coach, from that dying deputy. Now... **give it to me.)**_

Malia punches him in the shoulder and glares. "No." She says, quietly, furiously. "You - that was not your fault. Stop it."

Stiles looks away. He can't take her genuine belief in that, not right now, not when he _scares_ his _friend._

_Scares **Lydia.**_

Lydia breaths out, shakily. "She's right." She says, quietly, but whole-heartedly. "It - it wan't your fault, you know that."

He laughs, slightly, but it's hollow.

"Yeah? Tell that to -"

He cuts himself off.

"...To Allison?" Lydia finishes, flinching but still questioning.

He closes his eyes.

"To - yeah. To - to the countless people who died in the hospital. To - to - _hell,_ even to fucking Oliver, and he's - crazy. Literally crazy."

Malia sighs.

"I went to visit him, once." She admits, and he looks at her, surprised. "Really?" "Yeah." He frowns. "What did-?" "He didn't remember trying to kill me." She said, simply. "Thought it was some horrible nightmare. I let him. He did ask how you were though; if the outside world was happy to have you back."

Stiles laughed, mirthlessly. "And?" Her lips quirked upwards. Lydia stared, uncomprehendingly. "To be careful." She said, quieter and less light-hearted. "Asked if you were actually sleeping. You know, rather than staying up and taking contraband pills."

Stiles sighed. "I should probably visit, just to give him some closure, shouldn't I?"

Malia nodded. "Though I'd check if your dad actually signed you out, first. You left, sure, but was that ever made legal?"

Stiles blinked. "Oh. Actually, no, now that I think about it." Malia grimaced. "Then, yeah, I'd get that sorted. I'm - not gonna finish that sentence, actually."

"Don't want to jinx it?" he asked, slightly amused. "Yeah." she grimaced. "That would be bad."

"What is going on?" Lydia asked, less demanding and more worn out than anything.

"Eichen house." Malia explained. "Yeah. Old Echo House was - not fun; but we should probably tell Oliver I'm not dead." Stiles continued for her. Malia seemed to take pause. "I should probably do the same for Mandy, actually, thinking about it."

"Mandy Briarson?" Lydia asked, surprised.

(My, today is just full of surprises, isn't it?)

Malia blinked. "Uh - yeah. How'd you know her?" "She's a junior." Lydia explained "Bob - he told me about her."

Stiles laughed. " _Bob?"_

Lydia had the decency to blush, ever so slightly. "Well, I had to call him something."

Malia shook her head. "Right. Anyway - today was for questions."

The room somehow grew colder; the emotions less light and more dark.

Everyone seemed sligtly more subdued. "Right." Stiles muttered. "What do you wanna know?"

Lydia seemed to take pause. She started her questions shortly thereafter.

"What... things, got left over, and what could you already do?"

Stiles grimaced. "That's a difficult one." She nodded, and seemed content to wait for him.

"Okay." He started. "So - pain-drain thing. That got... left over. Emotions. Also left over, I think. Strength, occasionally. But mountain ash was before, so."

Malia glared. "So was the occasional strength thing. And the uncanny intuition. That too."

"I got tonnes of stuff wrong," Stiles said dismissively. "And what are you talking about; the strength thing? That's new." "No it ain't." She frowned. "I've - been - looking." She told him, haltingly. "Also; you all need to remember to delete camera footage; so many incriminating things on those CCTV cams. It's pretty bad."

Stiles grimaced. "Yeah; you-" He paused.

_Camera footage._

He balked. "Which ones?" He demanded, and calmly, she replied. "Literally all of them. School, Sheriff's department..." She trailed off.

"The hospital." He breathed, and slumped, a little fearful.

"Why have I not been arrested yet?" He demanded. "If all that's there - surely?"

"Melissa saved and copied, then deleted, all the hospital footage." She explained. "School stuff - it isn't really watched; just copied and filed away at the end of each day, before being erased off of the main computers. The Sheriff's Department - well, that's your dad. He'd keep you and your friends safe, and besides the only stuff that ever got recored was when the person didn't bother turning the cameras off, like Matt did."

Stiles relaxed. He breathed, in, out. "Okay. Okay." He nodded. "What did you find, then?" he asked, prompting her to continue. "I've looked," she started, "At all the stuff from the start of junior year and onwards. So - like, for example; the night when you all got trapped inside the school with - that big-" here she grimaced -" Mutated werewolf thing."

"Peter Hale." Lydia muttered, then paused. "Hey -where has he been, anyway?" Stiles shrugged. "Hell if I know. Continue, please." Malia nodded.

"Right. Ehrm, another time - also at school, actually - you held up a paralysed Alpha - I'm guessing Derek Hale - from drowning in a swimming pool for two hours. _Two whole freaking hours._ Lydia" here, she turned to address the other girl. "You're the physics genius; maths, whatever - is that possible?"

Lydia grimaced. "Without having to explain a bunch of stuff? No, it isn't. A few minutes, maximum, if he had training. Clothes drag you down, too. So, a - wait, how old was he again? Hmm, let's say twenty-three - twenty-three year old man with a large muscle mass who is paralysed and therefore unable to help keep himself afloat, being held up by a sixteen year old with supposedly less than great muscle mass, whilst they are both fully clothed? Pretty much gonna die within seconds. Possibly minutes, if the teen is trained for that sort of problem."

Malia gestured towards Lydia, having had her point proven. "See?"

Stiles grimaced. "Nope."

"Once, twice, thrice." Lydia blurted. He blinked at her, but she ignored him in favour of Malia. "You need to give at least three examples for him to believe you."

Malia grunted in annoyance. "He broke a baseball bat - wooden - over the head of an alpha werewolf. Well, two, they joined into one." she grimaced. "That was gross."

Lydia's eyes widened. "No wonder they didn't like you." She blinked. "But yeah - again, impossible. You'd have broken your hands hitting them over the head with all your might. Those bats are scarily durable. You could wack it against a brick wall and all you'd get for your trouble would be very painful hands."

Stiles raised an eyebrow. "Don't be ridiculous." She glared at him, and he winced. "Are you saying I don't know what I'm talking about?" "No!" He protested. She looked triumphant. "Then you must believe me when I say - those things? They are _impossible._ Unless, of course, you have extra strength. In which case..." Lydia trailed off, her point having been made.

Malia grinned at the back up. "Thanks Lydia. But - see?" Malia gestured at him. "Coincidences." Stiles protested. Malia growled slightly, eyes flashing. "For such a smart person, you sure can be an idiot."

He folded his arms. "Nope."

"This may seem stupid." Malia sighed. "But he pulled down a vending machine at the hospital - shook it easily, as if it weighed nothing, and pulled it over."

Lydia sighed. "Possible with human strength; but-" and here, she grinned. "Not the amount he supposedly has. Those things are _heavy._ A bunch of the weightlifters at school tried to do that to impress me, and none of them managed to pull it over. An adult bodybuilder - who was basically a giant - did so with ever so slight effort. It was to embarrass them, I think - so that they wouldn't do it again, but it proves our point."

Stiles grumbled, and sank down into the couch.

Lydia blinked. "What's his musculature?" She asked Malia, and Malia grimaced. "You'd have an easier time asking the lacrosse boys. I don't know."

Lydia looked miffed. "Seriously, Stiles?" He looked away. "Uh - yeah. And why would you want to know, anyway?"

"To prove my point." She answered, shortly. "If it's around the same as the wolves or not."

"That doesn't prove anything!" He protested.

She scoffed. "Never mind." She turned to Malia, ignoring Stiles, and started speaking as if he wasn't there.

"If you ever do convince him that he's not inferior to his wolf friend, and wolf acquaintances, physicality-wise, do tell me. We might be able to prove our point."

And with that, Lydia left the room, left the house. The door clicked shut behind her.

He kept his gaze anywhere other than Malia.

"That was not what tonight was for." He said, finally and she huffed. "Wasn't it?"

He didn't deign to answer her.

(It was a rhetorical question, anyway.)

* * *

 

The sun came up, and as many a morning before Malia turned around, kissed him good morning, told him she'd come back for a lift to school, and left through his open window.

Stiles sighed, mulled over his dream until the last vestiges of the nightmare were gone, and then dragged himself out of bed.

He got ready, then went downstairs. With a bad feeling in his gut, he took the police radio with him.

(Just in case. His gut was in knots; that nagging feeling prevalent and sickening.)

His dad was in the living room, fast asleep on the couch, police documents ( _for certain eyes only, and not yours, Stiles)_ scattered haphazardly on the table.

Guilt gnawing at his insides, he took the documents and went upstairs, then copied them. Went back downstairs, and placed them exactly how they'd been originally, so his dad would be none the wiser. (You'd think, by now, that'd he'd know better. Stiles knows that that shouldn't be his thought - but honestly, he'd been reading his father's work documents since long before all the supernatural shit. So, yes, you'd think the Sheriff would know better.)

(Know his son better.)

Stiles looked at his dad, and sighed. He went into the kitchen, and made breakfast; the healthy sort, but decided one piece of bacon wasn't going to kill his dad, so he put that on his father's plate. Took it into the living room, and handed it over to his now awake parent.

The Sheriff took it, silently, and ate. Stiles went back into the kitchen.

(He put his leftovers - which was all of it - into the fridge. He grabbed a drink - water, nothing overly anything really - and took his adderal (more than recommended) and his Xanex reluctantly (and therefore less than recommended). He took a swig of the water, felt it go down his throat and through his esophagus, but felt no relief, no quenching of thirst.

(It's hard to feel that when you don't feel thirsty in the first place. He didn't eat simply because he didn't (ever) feel hungry.)

(Not in the food sense of the word, anyway.)

(He hates the other sense.)

(This body is a copy; a shell. He knows this, has always known this. He thinks when he copied his old body he was so focused on not keeping the FTD that he wasn't focused enough on keeping it wholly - wholly not the - not _Him.)_

Stiles sighed. He put the bottle back - half full, one drink each day's morning - and left the room.

"Not eating?" His dad asked, concern leaking from him freely, genuine worry pouring forth. Stiles swallowed the bile that threatened to come out. "I did." He lied easily, and for a moment he heard his heart.

_Thump, thump. Thump-thump. Thump, thump. Thump-Thump._

_Steady._

(It was steady.)

The Sheriff relaxed, believing Stiles, and with a sharp inward jolt Stiles realised he hadn't even sounded to himself like he was lying. He knew he was, obviously, but the tells he'd always had - the ones his dad always picked up on, the ones he'd never missed no matter the level of lie - just weren't there anymore.

Stiles bolted.

* * *

 

_Where is he?_

Malia was standing on the corner of Stiles' street - the place they'd both agreed upon for her to be picked up at.

Stiles was running late. This meant one of two things; either he'd forgotten, which was unlikely, or he'd gotten in his car and _ran._

That was worryingly more likely. Malia sprinted to the Stilinskis' house.

"Sheriff!" She called out, getting there just as the man in question was opening his car door, in a rush.

"Malia." he said, surprised. It went, before he gestured her over. "Where are you going?" She demanded. "Stiles bolted." he sighed. He slumped. "You'll -find him easier than I will..."

There was a pause. The _and he'll listen to you,_ went unsaid. She viciously thinks it Karma for all the times he didn't listen to Stiles.

(The ones she's seen in the CCTV cams.)

(She doesn't really care about his side of things. Stiles, he's the one that matters to her.)

Dutifully, because Stiles would want her to, she says "He would listen to you too, you know," even if he's unsure.

Because Stiles would, in fact, listen to him, even if the Sheriff doesn't believe that.

Malia catches Stiles' scent, interprets the chemo signals and balks. "I've got to go." she says, rushed, and _sprints,_ as fast as her coyote side will let her.

* * *

 

It's a lot easier to find the Nemeton than Stiles thought it would be.

You know, considering that wasn't even his destination. In truth, he hadn't had one, he'd just been driving but - poof. One thought of the nemeton, and he's slamming the breaks because he's just driven into that very stump's clearing.

He frowns at it, but gets out of his car despite the nagging feeling in his gut, despite his instincts to _run._

Because there's also that annoying instinct telling him that this is _fine,_ that the old, very evil and annoying stump _means no harm._

He thinks _liar,_ but goes towards it anyway.

He sits on it, and feels stupid, but then instantly doesn't because the place bleeds into that shared mindspace he'd had with Scott and - and -

Her. Scott and Allison.

(That was the first time he'd said that in almost five weeks. Her name brings pain, guilt, sorrow. He never likes to say it. Not even think it inside his own head.)

The place seems strangely familiar, besides the shared headspace of it all (he can't figure out what to call it - headspace, mindspace, it makes no difference). He thinks maybe he's been here before; all his life and yet never once.

Which is ridiculous, because he's been here _once_ , and _only once._ Not all his life, or never, ever.

He looks around, and on one of the columns, he sees a shut door. Padlocked, and barricaded, chained and barred, it seems almost overtly closed.

He knows why. _Nothing,_ and he means _nothing,_ is _ever_ getting inside his head.

_Never, ever again._

Wait. Inside _his_ head?

He looks down, and the board is still there, the pieces still scattered about the stump's surface and the floor surrounding it. He's still wearing the clothes he'd worn then; the plaid shirt and t-shirt and jeans.

When he stands, they morph to jeans, white sneakers and the hoodie he'd given Malia because he'd never wanted to see it again, ever, on his person.

He looks around. There's nothing there.

Stiles turns, slowly, and sees another door. This door, of course, is ajar, and is labelled _memories._

He figures if he shut that he'd forget everything, so he's good with it being open. It's not wide open, and he figures that that's normal. Nobody remembers everything _exactly,_ down to the very last detail; it's most likely because the door is mostly closed.

His gut is telling him to both open it more and stay away from it, at the same time. He's never said he makes good, spur of the moment decisions, and in keeping with that he goes towards the door. He sees a latch that he hadn't seen from the stump and frowns, because his gut is _screaming_ that that shouldn't be there, but his mind is telling him he'd hate to know the memories that's holding back.

He unlatches the door, and slams it open, fully open and - and -

Stiles steps through.

* * *

 

Malia was never the best at tracking, ever since she became human again thanks to Scott and Stiles (she both blames and doesn't blame them; she knows now that they thought they were helping her.) but she's determined to find her boyfriend without the interference of the other pack members.

So she runs. Luckily, he's in the preserve; she knows that place like the back of her hand.

She knows where the old stump is too. She figures that's where he's at, but she's not sure why she knows that. It doesn't matter; she needs to find him.

So she does. She runs through the preserve, crashing through branches, stomping through the underbrush, leaping over gaps she hadn't been able to as a coyote, and gets why it's better to be human with supernatural powers than an animal any day. Aside from the whole horrible guilt and terrrifying emotions thing, it's so much better; she feels much more powerful.

Let anything try to hunt her now; let traps try to keep her down.

So she runs. And she finds him.

His jeep, Roscoe, is parked nearby, and she quickly turns off the engine, and closes the door without locking it. She pockets the keys, although she's unsure why, exactly.

She just does, and that's the end of that, as far as she's concerned.

She sees him, staring off into the distance, pale and dark-eyed (purple; like he'd been punched, the irises a darker brown than the whiskey they usually were), lips chapped and generally not looking so good. She sits down next to him, and he takes her hand. They both relax, and she knows he's about as aware of this as any person who's sleeping would be, so she sits there, and waits.

(His grip tightens, as if daring her to leave him. She would never.)

* * *

 

Stiles remembers.

It's not easy, and there's a lot to sort out, but he _remembers,_ oh _god, does he **remember.**_

His mother was great, the first few years, she was. He knows this.

The last two - they were...

Not great. If he were anyone else, he'd call them horrific.

( _He's trying to kill me? Don't be **silly.** He **is** killing me.)_

Sadly, he thinks, through the rush of old memories and ones he'd forgotten - mostly, ones he'd forgotten - her being vocally angry was a good day.

He doesn't want to think about that, so he doesn't.

The memories rush through the years as fast as anything, too fast to comprehend.

Once it's over, he feels their weight like a physical thing, and he now knows more than he's ever known previously.

(He thought he'd remembered everything he'd done, when _he'd_ been around. He was wrong.)

(Now? He remembered _everything._ One thousand years worth of _everything._ He didn't feel any older, or any different. He just remembered everything. Including all the memories of the hosts _it'd_ had.

So. Lots of lives across a thousand years. Stiles isn't so sure his brain can handle all that information, but he had chosen to remember, hadn't he?)

Stiles falls backwards. The white hall is there, and so is Malia.

He looks at her, sleeping, and after a moment taps her on the shoulder. She opens her eyes, and for a moment panics. He throws a wave of calmness at her, and she instantly relaxes.

They sit up, across from each other, the Go board off to one side. She glances at the chess board, blinks and its Go again. She looks away.

She sees the wide open memories door, the overly closed door in and out of this place and frowns.

"If the door is locked on this side..." she starts. "How are we gonna get out?"

Stiles panics.

* * *

 

Scott is worried.

Yes, Scott is usually worried, but hear him out.

Because this is serious.

Stiles and Malia are missing.

This, of course, wouldn't be so bad, if he could actually find their scents _anywhere._ But he can't. Not at Stiles' house, not at Malia's not anywhere.

And the jeeps gone too - so either they took it, and ran, or something else happened. Stiles' dad is to preoccupied with trying to find his son and figure out if it's supernatural or not (and so therefore if he can put out an APB or not) to tell Scott much of anything.

And so the pack is simply wandering throughout the preserve, and they can't use their powers because Parrish demanded he come along.

Because it's not _safe_ for them to go into the preserve at night, when they all know two teens are missing.

(If only he knew. Maybe he'd be more lenient.)

(Or maybe he'd be idiotic and demand they have therapy.)

(Scott's not sure.)

And so they search as one group rather than split up, with Parrish tagging along like some sort of guard dog.

(Scott finds it almost amusing. Or he would, if his friends weren't missing.)

(They can handle themselves, thank you very much. The pang he feels at the reminder of who said that the most hurts more than anything, but he pushes it aside. They have work to do.)

"I think I know where they are." Lydia pipes up.

Scott looks at her. "Where?" He asks, urgently. "I think you know too."

Scott stops, sighs, and gives up.

He sits on a nearby log. Liam looks at him confusedly, Kira sympathetically, and Lydia annoyed. "We can find it." She states, but he replies "Not if it doesn't want to be found."

She gives up as well. Sits next to him.

Liam and Parrish's confusion grows, and Kira sits on his other side.

She holds his hand, and he feels comfort from that.

"What are you looking for?" Parrish asks. None of them reply.

"I'd like to know, guys." Liam pipes up, and his eagerness is quickly squashed by some unseen thing, because he sits next to kira on the last bit of available space.

Parrish frowns at them, but sits on a stump across from them. It's not the most comfortable stump, it looks like, but he sits on it regardless.

They all sit there. Lydia gets up. "Come on, Jordan." she mutters. "I'm not giving up this easy."

And she walks. Parrish looks at them, before following.

(He doesn't want anyone to be alone in the woods at night. Scott wonders why he seems to be the only non-supernatural, who also doesn't know about it, that has an inkling that that would be unsafe.)

They sit there, for a moment, before Scott sighs. He gets up, and they all get up, and Scott follows Lydia's scent.

They'll find Stiles and Malia, they have to.

* * *

Malia is trying to break through the metal chains locking the door, and Stiles isn't caring that anything could get in when they break this.

_They need to get out._

Stiles isn't sure where he got a sledgehammer, but it's useful so he's not gonna question it. He's already broken through the majority of the wooden barricade, and now he's onto the wood bars blocking the door.

He's halfway through once Malia finally breaks the chain and it falls off the door. She's now onto the padlock; though this time one easy hit is all that's required to break it. She pulls it off, and he breaks the last of the boards. They look at their handiwork, the door now clear of all obstacles, and Stiles feels fear.

_Don't let them in._

She takes his hand and he calms, though his nerves spike when she goes to open the door.

It's locked. He feels bad that that calms him down.

She steps back, and Stiles realises Malia wants him to try. He places a hand on the door, much like he did when he went to open the door in Echo House - Eichen, Eichen House ( _he's not an inmate don't call it that-)_ and placed his hand on the knob. He turns it, and it _clicks,_ and suddenly he's hit by this wave of something, and Malia grabs onto him as they fall back-

He wakes shouting.

* * *

 

Scott stills.

He hears shouting.

Liam does too he thinks, because they look to each other before Scott _sprints_ as fast as he can towards the noise. They pass Parrish and Lydia - one looks confused, as if he's listening to something, and Lydia looks afraid, as if _she's_ listening to something he doesn't want her to be listening to, not _now,_ not _ever -_

He runs. He gets there in record time.

Malia is growling at him, eyes electric blue. Stiles is - he's not sure. Scott can't really see him right now.

Though, to be fair, he is fighting a half-feral Malia. That might be why he's not got the time to-

Malia's wrenched away from him, and he stares in disbelief as _Stiles,_ human, not very strong _Stiles_ holds her back, almost wrestles her as he stares down at her face, his expression a dark one.

(The shadows cast on their faces seem almost too perfect. Stiles' face is half cast in shadow, and from this perspective he can't see Malia's face at all; though if he were able to, she'd be perfectly visible.)

"What did I teach you?" Stiles demands. She looks at him, bows her head. Her shift recedes, and Scott knows now what her - _who,_ her anchor is.

She doesn't reply, and Stiles then notices Scott.

He stares. Scott stares back.

A blink, a moment later, and Stiles is - gone.

"Crap." Malia mutters, stares at where he was. She looks to Scott, apologetic, and bolts after him.

Scott looks down at the healing claw marks on his arm. He looks up, and Malia's gone.

(Their scents are gone too.)

(They're fucked if they wanted to find the two of them. Scott thinks now, that they don't want to be found.)

The others enter the clearing just as the marks on Scott's arm finish healing. Lydia looks pale.

"I was going to scream for you." She said, too calm, too reserved. "It was only a possibility - you dying after it; I've screamed for others without them dying previously - but I was. I didn't, though."

Small mercies, Scott thinks. Parrish is still there, more confused than ever.

"What - what is going on in this town?" He demands. Scott shares a glance with Lydia.

(Too many people are having to be told, lately. He thinks... no, he _knows_ that this will come back to bite them in the ass later on.)

So they tell him. He nods, and doesn't think them crazy.

(After tonight, why would he?)

 


End file.
